


The Shield and Spear Paradox

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apologies, Arguing, Dean Apologizes, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fighting, First Time Together, Markers, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, People being less than mature, Reconciliation, Reconciliation Sex, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, graffiti fight, written apology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7218967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You and Dean can be professional, but your constant fighting is fiery, fierce and crackles with tension.  What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?</p><p>for @lexie-davenport and her June challenge.  I snagged prompt no.25 "That's fucking huge!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shield and Spear Paradox

“Shit Sam!”

“What?!” he whispers harshly.

You grab his sleeve in realisation and hush urgently.  “We can’t go in this way!  It’s a southern wind!  The smell’ll hit them before we even close the door!”

“Fuck!” He rocks back, recalculating the attack, spinning the handle of his machete in short tosses as he thinks.  “We’ll go round the side,” he nods, “to the east-”

“What about Dean?”

“He’ll figure it out,” Sam frowns.  He’s agitated and wants to get going.

“No, I’ll just go around and tell him.  It’ll only-”

“He’ll _figure it out,_ Y/N, he’s not simple,” Sam snaps and drags you around the side of the building so you can surprise the nest of vampires.  And Dean, it would seem.

Great.  As if you’re gonna hear the end of this.

* * *

Never have you ever been so thankful for a hunt to be this close to home.  Spending motel time, any more Impala time, with a furious Dean would’ve been painful beyond paper cuts.  When the last vampire had fallen, Dean turned to Sam looking for an explanation and Sam said “It was Y/N.  She realised the wind would give off our scent.”

You’d closed your eyes and breathed deep, wondering which demon had put Sam up to starting an excuse with your name.  But Sam thought he was singing your praises and hardly had any idea of what he’d started.

Dean had pouted, nodded, looked at the ceiling and shaken his head as he stormed out.

In the car, Sam tried again with “I told her you’d be okay.”

Dean did a single back-forth shake of the head. “And here we are,” he replied, “bein' okay.”  He worked his mouth like he was trying to chew glue off his lips.  “Thank god she thought of that at the last minute.”

Sam sat back and looked out the window.  “I’m so god damned sick of this shit,” he muttered, but you couldn’t tell if Dean had heard or if he’d meant it for you.

You felt the car wince and drag under Dean's foot as he got you all home and he disappeared into the bunker so fast you thought maybe he’d seen reason, swallowed down his annoyance.  

You picked up your gear, headed for your room and wondered how the hell all those women can look past his wankery and fall for it.  Well, you can see why, you just can’t fathom- okay you can fathom.  He’s very handsome, but _such a jerk_.  Also, they don’t have to listen to him wax on for that long.  If you’d caught him on a good night, sure, you would’ve done a 6hr fling with the guy.  But you had to _live_ with him - his nitpicking, fault poking, shit stirring, pie stealing, woman wooing, hot water hogging, bow legged, sass flinging, panty burning, know-it-all-ing, monster killing ass.  Jerk.

Thankfully, this glitch in the hunt (and there was always one) seemed to have blown over without much retribution.  Thank goodness too, because as much as you get along with Sam, you can tell that even he isn’t going to ask you to stick around much longer.  The conflict between you and Dean is getting ridiculous, and only just short of counterproductive.  In fact, you’re amazed at how well you cooperate in the field, considering how badly you cohabit indoors.

So, tonight you are right ready to settle into a good sandwich, have an early night of rest, and start counting the pros of solo hunting.

“Didn’t feel like telling me, huh?” Dean asks from the doorway behind you.  “Couldn’a let a guy know?”

Dammit, you could throw something and fuck it if you didn’t crack a tooth right there and then.  Screw him and his shitty attitude.

“Well, I _wanted_ to, but Sam said you weren’t simple,” you reply.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He takes a few steps into the room.

You can’t even look at him.  When is he going to get off your goddamn ass and stop being such an annoying shit?  “It means he thought you would figure it out,” you say as lightly as you can.

You turn to put away the bread and nearly laugh.  He’s hands-on-hips, tilting at you so hard he looks hard of hearing.

You scoff, “You really think we were trying to fuck you around?”

“They’re vampires, Y/N,” he states, righteous and gruff.  “You don’t leave things to chance unless you have to.”

“Oh fuck off!!” you snap.  Jesus your voice hasn’t cracked since the 4th grade.  The frustration this asshole stokes in you!  “I’m aware of how dangerous vampires are!  I _know_ that Dean!  But Sam seemed to be in a hurry- Why aren’t you chewing him out, huh?  If we’d gone through that door, especially if we’d gone through when you had, the breeze would’ve sucked your scent right through the building.  So, _also_ ; you’re _welcome!”_

You watch him blink himself pissy and pinched before he speaks.  “Are you this argumentative with everyone, Y/N?  What lucky bastard did you run over before me?”

Dean clenches his jaw and crosses his arms.  His defiance, the way he just plants it in front of you and forces you to respond, infuriates you no end.

You’ve lost your appetite.  You pick up your sandwich and fling it into the fridge, ignoring how the whole thing shudders when you slam the door.  This guy is the living end.

Stepping towards him and pointing at his feet, lest you poke him in the chest, you chew the words out of your head hard enough to make your ears burn.  “I’ve never wanted to fight with anyone the way I want to fight with you,” you tell him, scowling even harder at your confession.  He watches you, face tightening and breath heightening as you talk.  “You fucking shit me to tears, Dean.  You never let up, always accusing, always starting shit, and I’ve never - _never!_ \- let anyone bait me like you do.”

“Is that why you’re always insisting you’re right,” he asks, chin first, like he only ever says facts.  “Laying down the law and expecting everyone to fall in line?”

“I don’t _insist_ I’m right.  I say what I think should be said-”

“And suggest I’m an idiot along the way.” He’s dripping acid.

“Well I’m damned whether I open my mouth or not, so you tell me: when do you want me to pipe up, Captain?  When we’re planning or when we’re fucked?”

“How about you wait and see what others are thinking-”

This time you did point at him, but you’re close enough now that you’re pointing up.  “If you dare accuse me of not being a team player, I’m gunna slap you so fucking hard-”

“You shoulda _told_ me-”

“I’m _SORRY!”_ you burst, venomous and hot, pumping your fists down by your thighs.  “I’m so _fucking_ sorry!   _Happy?!”_

You shoulder past him, snatching your arm away from his fingers as they drag on your skin, and storm off to your room.  He thunders “Y/N!”

“Fuck off!” you yell back.

Why hadn’t you up and left yet?  Why did you persist with this ridiculous set up?  Fiery fights one minute, respectful professionalism the next.  You couldn’t even think straight enough to figure out why it was like this with Dean.  You’d worked with cocky bastards before.  You’d worked with handsome men before.  You’d worked with brilliant hunters before.  None of them had made you act this way.  You cringed at yourself - the cutting comments, the scathing scowls, the one-upmanship that you had never stooped to with anyone before. 

The only thing - just the one - that kept you feeling like yourself was your protectiveness.  Any number of insults had crossed your mind but you’d never let them fly from your mouth.  They were hurtful and awful and you were in Dean’s home; you wouldn’t throw that crap at him.  To be honest, he could be angry till the cows came home and he whittled a boat, but seeing him hurt wasn’t something you wanted.  

So maybe that’s why this stings a little more than usual: You’d left Dean vulnerable in that hunt and it had made you nervous through and through.  

You slam your bedroom door - like, plant your feet to give it a really good slam - and practically bounce on the spot as you clench your teeth and fists and grizzle at yourself for being so ridiculously upset.  This is the moment Dean walks in and you almost push the door back in his face for the arrogance.

“Oh _what?_  What is it now?”

“You need to calm the hell down,” he says, nowhere near setting the example himself.

What a load of shit.  You peer at him with laser-level anger.  “You think coming into my room without knocking and telling me to calm down is going to do the job?  Good work doctor.”

Why did you lose your sensibilities with Dean?  Why?!

“I just-” he hesitates. “I just need to know that you won’t do that again.”

You put you hands on your hips and take a few breaths, really try to calm, but you just end up enunciating all your words with a samurai tongue.  “Of course, Dean, I will never do that again.  I didn’t want to do that the first time.”

“How did you even-”

“Jesus, I said sorry!” you yelp.  “What do you want, a written apology?”

Dean clamps his mouth shut and glares at you.  

“What are you even doing in here?” you ask.

He juts his jaw and blinks, just for a second, and chews his tongue with a peculiar look on his face.  Then he gets himself together and lets his breath break with a roll of the eyes, all _Pfft you are so much work._  That’s when you snap.

“Fucking fine.” You grab a sharpie from your desk and walk to him, snatching his left hand with yours and turning so your back faces his chest.  Threading your fingers between his, with your palm to his knuckles, you hold his hand open and steady, pull the marker’s lid off with your teeth and, as you write, say “I’m _sorry_.  I’m sorry I didn’t defy Sam and go and tell you like I wanted.  I’m sorry we left you to guess at what was going on.  I’m sorry you were vulnerable and that I didn’t explain straight away.  I’m sorry we don’t get along.  And I’m sorry I piss you off every second of my fucking existence.”

You throw his hand to the side, step away and recap the marker.  “And if you would be so kind as to possibly, maybe, get off my goddamn case that’d be awesome.”

Dean stares at the word on his palm - S O R R Y - large and bold, underlined twice, and you notice how his chest is heaving, just like yours.

He clears his throat.  “I work with you, Y/N.  Being on your case is part of the job,” he says, looking back up at you.  “I won’t apologise for that.”

Okay, NOW is when you snap.

“You little fucker,” you grit out and put the marker between your teeth.  

“Hey!-” he starts to protest and you pounce on him.  He doesn’t want to physically fight you, so he misses the window of opportunity to get himself out from under your hands and is taken by surprise when you buckle his legs and get him over the bed, knees on the ground, and his arm pinned up his back with your knee.  A few threads snap when you yank his neckline sideways, and you start drawing.

“HEY!” he barks and wriggles.  “What’re you doing?!!”

You don’t answer but drag the marker over his shoulder skin while he struggles, his toes sliding on the carpet.  He gets some grip just as you’re finishing up and throws you off his back.  Grumbling noises of disbelief, he goes to the mirror and leans down to look.  

“That’s fucking huge!” he squawks, staring at the hairy cock and balls you’ve scribbled over the muscle.

“I’ve drawn bigger,” you mutter.

“That is fucking _it.”_

He strides over, snatches your wrist out of the air and plucks the marker from your fingers before you can think of where to go.  He spins you, furious, and pushes you against the door face first, leaning against you with his shoulder.  

“Get off!” You rasp, unable to take a deep breath and you could probably use all your energy to get out from under him but it’s not worth much more than the struggle.

He digs a heel into the ground and pushes his hip into yours, trying not to listen to you grunt every time he shifts.  Hooking his fingers into the hem of your t-shirt sleeve, he pulls it up so he can press his forearm across your shoulders.  You’re facing away so can’t see what he’s doing, except you can tell he’s writing letters.  You grunt some more in resistance and listen to him talk as he concentrates on writing while you’re both braced.  “You can kissss… myyy… aaaass.”

As soon as he lets up, you whip around and snatch the marker back, red faced and quicksilver.  You even put it in your back pocket so you can grab and move him, box him back with short shoves on his shoulders and he warns “Hey! _Hey!_ Y/N!”, then you hook his legs to get him on the ground.  He isn’t really fighting you though, either not expecting it to get that bad, or not wanting it to go that far.  Either way, once he’s on his stomach he’s ready to negotiate but not ready for a chair to be stood over his back.  The chair’s front feet fit either side of his ribs and the side rails are above his arms, keeping him from folding them for a push up. You sit on it and he grabs the legs either side of his head, trying to topple you, while you hook one hand onto the desk so you can ride out his bucking efforts.

“You little shit!” he cries and goes all bassy to order you around. “Get off!   _Get off right now!”_

“Nnnnope!” You lean down to pull his shirt up.  With the marker stretched from the tips of your fingers, you reach down so you can slowly, shakily, and upside-down, write BOSSY on the pale skin of his lower back, and try not to get distracted by his ass and legs writhing around.  By the Y, he’s given up fighting so, with your extra time, you draw a cheery little butterfly beneath - four loops with some antenna and a heart in each wing.

“Are you about done?” he grinds out.

“Yup,” you peep and hop off the chair.  You step back, watching him get up as though there isn’t wearing any furniture. He’s really more crimson than red.

He bends down to pick it up the fallen chair, glowering like you just threw a baseball through Baby’s window, and crunches it back where it belongs.  “Where’s the marker?”

For some strange reason, you’re starting to panic.  Or peak out with adrenaline.  You just don’t know what’s coming and it’s making you hold your breath while you talk.  “It’s here,” you answer, stepping backwards.  “And we’re even.”

“The hell we’re not,” he fumes.  He lunges for it, but you yank it out of reach.  He glares, looming tall and radiating irritation, then lunges again and as you’re wondering why he doesn’t just make a grab - then lightning quick, he has your arm in his grasp.

“Wowshit!” He wrenches the marker from your fingers before yanking your whole body towards the bed.  He gets a tight hold of your arms, right above the elbows, lifts you straight up and tilts you forward, dropping you down face first onto the middle of the bed in a prize WWE move.  You _Ooof!!_ and curse and before you’ve stopped bouncing he’s knelt over you, hooked his thumb under the edge of your top, dragged it up your back and pushed down on your head to pin you to the mattress while he sits on your hips.

“Mmfwhhuck! _Dean!!”_ You scowl and wriggle, arms flapping like a fallen penguin, and he’s trying to focus on the marker, not your soft ass scootching about under his. Your face is turned to him this time, but all you can see is the top of his head.

“You’re such a fucking know-it-all, Y/N,” he growls.  “Always knowing best, looking down your nose at me when we go out-”

“I _don’t_ look down my nose at you!” you spit, barely able to move your jaw under the pressure.

“Yeah you do.” He starts writing.  “You think you’re too good.”

“Jesus Dean, I pick up in bars,” you grunt.  “Half as often as you, but I’m not above it.”  You hear him huff out his nose while he thinks, then starts another something somewhere else on your back.

“God-dammit! _Get offa me!”_

“Did you-?” Dean stops and twists himself so he can get a look at what you last drew and gasps.  Suddenly he’s right over your shoulder, breath hot over your face and voice peaking as he demands “Did you put a tramp stamp on me?”

You try to look at him, to get out from under the hot press of his palm above your ear, and he asks again “Did you?! Is that a frikken butterfly?!”

You bite your lips together and let out a squeak as he twists and checks again, because he’s so flabbergasted and you think he just might burst into flames.

He leans down a bit further and hisses by your ear “You put a tramp stamp on me!” and it’s so ridiculous he can’t possibly be serious.  You burst into giggles.

“Oh you are fuckin- it is fuckin-” he sits back, lets go of your head.  “You are so fuckin’ dead.”

He kneels up and pulls your shoulders, turning you over beneath him and between the rush and the giggles you’ve barely got any breath left in you. There’s a quick slap-fight, a few errant stripes on your forearms, but he gets your wrists in one hand and holds them above your chest while he writes BITE ME on the side of your stomach.

“Stop laughing!” he demands, like he’s serious.  “Stop it! It’s gonna say Biyf Ne if you don’t stop laughing!”

You manage to push yourself up the bed a bit and soon your knees are between his.  He’s almost moved with you, awkwardly hovering as he writes.

“Okay, no more!” you call out. “That’s enough!”  You’re trying to put on a mature voice and end the fight as he finishes the letters.  “No more Dean!”

You twist your wrists away and he chucks the marker so he can get them back, and ends up taking an arm in each hand and pushing them down, shoving them behind your waist, bending your chest upward.  You don’t even see it, but he drops his face down and bites, a big toothy mouthful of belly and rib.  You gasp high and cry “Dean! _Shit!”_ as your fingers fly to his head, threading into his hair, and he freezes. You squeeze your eyes shut, not in pain or surprise, but in frustration at how ridiculously hot this is.

The bastard’s leaning over, puffing into your waist with a grip on your arms and your hands on him while his face is against your belly, his cheek getting full contact on each deep puff.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, lips dragging on you.

“No, I’m fine,” you tell him, unmoving.

His eyelashes flit against your skin for a moment, then he puts his hand over the bite mark and sits up.  Your hands slide off his head and end up on his forearms.  His cheeks are rosy, lips flushed and his hair is all over the shop.

He’s looking at you like you’re going to tell him off, but he’s taking in your features too, and he realises that he likes making you laugh far more than he likes making you angry.

“Are we friends?” he asks.

You can’t hold back your confusion.  “Wh-! You don’t like me!”

“I what?!”

“You criticise me all the time,” you snort bitterly.

“ _You_ say exactly what I’m thinking, right before I can put the words together,” he leans over to tell you.  “It drives me nuts!”

“But you shoot down everything I suggest!”

“I know! I can’t help it!”  He’s as amazed as you are.

“Well could you knock it off?!” you plead up at him, not realising you’re still rather sarcastic.  “Coz I’m pretty sure you’re not actually a jerk.”

“You know what,” he says, moving so he’s looking directly down at you, “I’m not a jerk.  I’m a _nice guy.”_  He’s let go of your arm now, supporting himself with a fist leaning by your head, the other still at your waist.

“Not that you’d let me see that,” you quip back.

He tilts down in emphasis, his frustration flaring again and growls out the words when he’s so close. “Hey, I’m doing my best here sweetheart, but you’re fuckin’ inspiring.”

“Well if I’m miraculously making you into a jerk, I’m not starting with nothing.” You lean up to say it, back to your snappy, fiery self.

He drops, straight down, lips landing on yours and only just soft enough to avoid splitting skin.  You make a noise, something high and muffled, and all of you shifts, twists a little in surprise.  It’s _like_ a kiss, pressing and fat, before he bitches “Shut up!” into your mouth, weighing your head down with his.

He slides his hand under your neck to curve it and moves hard enough to force your jaw to work with his.  Your lips move together and when he tilts and locks his against yours, open with tongue tasting, you figure it must be kissing.  This is definitely kissing.  He’s kissing you.  _Jesus_.

Your hands grab onto the back of his head, one threaded through the locks and the other fisting them meanly.  He groans into your mouth and all of you slackens and recoils, the fire from your brow and jaw muscles being drawn into your lap and belly.

“Fuck!” you growl, annoyed with yourself, with him, with how brilliantly right he feels against you.  “Stop grinning you fucker,” you tell him, “I can feel it.”

Dean laughs a little, still kissing as best he can, his full lips reaching and working with yours.  He adjusts his hold, thumb shifting to the bolt of your jaw and hums again.  “Dammit I didn’t think I wanted you this bad,” he says against your mouth, “but I so do.”

You hum back a little and realise you’ve reached your tongue across your teeth, searching for the feel of his, imagining it’s articulate enough to pull his into your head, but you have second thoughts and draw back.

He looks at you suddenly, popping straight up and throwing your nerves sky high at his abrupt pause.  He asks without an agenda,  “Am I gonna be out on my ass in 10 seconds?”

He’s so close, closer than any injury or near miss on a hunt, and he’s warm and clean.  He’s looking at you like he wants you happy, which isn’t just unfamiliar, it’s downright bewitching.  You put your hand over your eyes because you realise you want him to stay.  You want to get to know him like this, because if he isn’t an asshole, if all the shit he pulls is because he is the opposite of a jerk, then he’s good.  He’s really good.

“Fuck.”  It pops out of your mouth again and completely gives you away.

“Oh yeah,” he croons, grinning shamelessly, “I gotcha.”

“Oh fuck off!” You move your hand to show you mean it, but he slides his knees down, lays his body on you and kisses you like your lips are magnetised.  You pull in a deep breath at the sensation of his weight, then moan because he feels so fucking good.  Goddamn him - those lips!  He’s so warm against you again but soft, working it gently, a little more open each time, and then you can feel your mouth has been worked apart enough that he can lick and taste the soft shine.  You sigh, letting your fingers float up behind his ears and your back arches towards him.

“I bet I’m better than you at some things,” he says, leaning back a few inches.  He’s looking at you so intensely, a gaze that ties yours to him, watching your every reaction.  

You’re unable to answer straight away, but you are so very okay with it that you let him start all over again, even if it means you’re wrong about something for once.

He kisses under your chin, still cupping your neck, and starts to kiss your chest, down to your belly. He glances at your breasts, checks that you’re watching and slowly slides his fingers over the warmth, cupping them both and nudging them gently. When you slide your hands over his, he thumbs over the nipples, closes his eyes and nuzzles between them for a moment before continuing his path south.

Soon he’s well below your navel and skirting your waistband with nipping kisses.

“What are you doing?” you ask quietly.

“Read your shoulder,” he murmurs.

You twist and crane to find the writing and figure it out: “You’re going to kiss my ass?!” you breathe.

“Yeah, if you’ll let me,” he says and rests his chin on your jean’s button.

He’s so different now. Patient and honest… When you look back over his behaviour since you’ve met, everything shifts. Maybe he really isn't who you thought, not entirely, and you realise that if you’ve made a mistake all this time, you might actually be okay with that.

“You’re going to kiss my ass,” you repeat.

“Mm hmm,” he nods slightly, starting to undo your jeans.

Your hips are slowly rocked side to side and you let him work your pants down. “Finally.”

You feel Dean’s chuckle through your thighs as he inches his way back up your legs. Leaning up on your elbows, you stare down at him kissing and nuzzling and feel your brain bend under the confusing sight of Dean just inches away from your panties with a look of keen anticipation.

The confusion is obviously on your face too, because he stops short when he sees you.  “What, you gonna watch?” he asks blithely.

“I just-” He runs open hands over your hip bones, considering your underwear.  “Hang on,” you say, and he stops.  “Are you seriously- _Seriously_ … Are you seriously going to eat me out right now?”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t pull back or apologise.  “That’s m’plan.”

“Why?” you ask, face creasing in bewilderment.

“Because I want to,” he says plainly, then realises.  “Is it weird?”

“A little,” you laugh, like _fucking yeah it’s weird._

“It’ll be weirder if you watch,” he says. “I mean I don’t mind - _I’ll_ be watching - but maybe you should close your eyes.  Or maybe I should blindfold you.”  He crawls up your body, grinning as he makes the suggestion, and your breath seems to run from him, crowding up into your shoulders.

“No,” you manage. “I’ll figure it out.”

“So you’re good?”

“I’m fine.”

“Didn’t think you were one to retreat,” he says and pecks you fatly on the mouth. “Don’t worry, I have it all mapped out.”

“What?”

He kisses you again, chin firm, and you fight to keep your head up against him.

“Well, see I imagined that if I were ever allowed to do this,” he says, moving back down your body and settling over your thighs, “that it’d most likely be part of an apology.”

“You don’t think you’ve got anything to apologise for?” Is he fucking kidding you right now?

“Eh, I’ll make somethin’ up.” He waves it off, smirking at your expression of _You are so rich_ and uses it to cover the nerves while he removes your panties. He lets a deep sigh out his nose, warming everything recently uncovered and tucks his chin down where all the creases meet.

You pull your shoulders high again, not to get away, just, you know, his _face_ is _right there,_ and he hugs your hips with his palms to reassure while he talks.

“I imagined I might work the apology into the process, you know, use my mouth for good instead of evil,” he says and kisses the soft hair on your mound and you manage to hold still. “You smell good.”

“You imagined…” You whisper, and bite both lips between your teeth and breathe.  “All right then,” you twitch an upward nod, “show me how you’re such a penitent man.”

He laughs _Mm-hmm_ and tucks himself between your legs, moving them over his shoulders like he’s snuggling into an eiderdown, and you let yourself lay back and stare at the ceiling.  

Reaching his right hand around and over your hips, he can get his fingers on your folds while his left hand rests over your thigh.  When he’s all ready he’s kneeling on the floor with his belly settled into the comforter.

Slowly and gently, he drags this fingertips down and up either side of your crease, strokes over the hair and lets his breath warm you.  He moves symmetrically for a while, lightly massaging the flesh, and kissing your thigh a few times.

“Y/N?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you sigh, realising you’ve closed your eyes.

He eases the folds apart and you try to stay calm.  Nothing happens but you feel the warmth of his breath get closer.  Then you detect his lips on you, right over your clitoris and he speaks, deep throated and with some fucking tight diction.  “I’m sorry I’m such a bossy bastard.”

He watches you twitch all over, reacting helplessly to his bass and the way he works the m’s and b’s into your clit.  You clear your throat and wait.

“I’m sorry I rode you so bad, and baited you, ‘n pitched fights,” he says, softly pinching your bud on each bilabial beat.  It tickles like hell and the randomness is just icing.  “I’m sorry I didn’t figure out,” he says, pressing his lips further against the shallow ridges, “how to not be threatened by you.”  He leans and kisses, licks and sucks like you’re a lollipop, and you move like your bones are going soft in the heat.  “Fuck you taste good, Y/N,” he moans and moves himself up and down to get his tongue up into the hood and drag it through the flesh to your core.

He licks and dips, dragging his hands down the back of your thighs and spreading you as far as he can.  You drive your fingertips over his scalp and he moans for you, kisses your wrist when you slip your touch along his jawline, and dives back in.

You notice his fingers get in along side his tongue, a little pressure and depth, and he comes back up to your folds, working a hungry rhythm that sucks and presses, pulls and licks.  You find your spine responding in kind and you begin to rock your pelvis for him, making noises that sound like forgiveness, if only he’d get those digits deeper than the first knuckle.

“I’m sorry I didn’t figure it out sooner, Y/N,” he says, quite honestly, “and that I’ve been such a dick.”

“I believe you,” you sigh, rocking mindlessly to encourage his fingers to be _more_ like a dick.  “Anything else?”

“What, you want the written apology?” he asks.  You tweak then that it’s his left hand that down there, the one you wrote on before, and smile to yourself.

He edges a few fingers in, still gently lapping above them, and takes his sweet time finding the heat.  You hook your ankle over his elbow, pushing him in as far as you can and tell him “Say it like you mean it Dean.”

“Oh I mean it,” he says and curls his fingers to find that spot in you.  “I am _so_ -”

“Ah!” Damn, he’s close.

“- _sorry_.”

“AH-Ha!” you gasp.

“There it is,” he smirks and rubs it again, watching your face disappear behind the curve of your chest.  He goes back to working you over with his lips and tongue, using intricate patterns and variety galore, but easing off inside with just a lazy thrust.

After a while you’re finding it’s delicious and teasing, but not quite everything. “Are you showing off?”

“A little,” he admits.

“Could you show off a little higher,” you ask.  

He smirks again, because of course you have a spot, and of course you’ll say so.  

“Just a lil- AH-HU-!! Shit! Dean!” you slap your feet onto either side of his ribs and pull, back arched. He’s got it, the flick-flick back and forth just above your clit.

He adjusts his body, propping himself afresh and starts brushing the nerves inside you with a little speed. His tongue skirts around that sweet spot but he’s coaxing you onward, building and urging, and everything he’s doing is synonymous with what you need but not actually the word.

“ _Dean_ ,” you arch and pull his hair a little. “C'mon!” You’re panting, openly aching for it.  “You don’t _feel_ sorry.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles then moves up, flicks his tongue hard, the way you jacked for it before, and reaches inside to pull a slow drag down that patch. It’s mean and perfect and makes all your corners bend as you reach for his head and make new sounds with your throat. He ducks down again, sucks it all into his mouth and flicks and fucks and you’re off, burst and wet and pulling on the comforter for prayer.

Dean lets you be for a moment, only a few seconds it seems, before pressing kisses into the corner of your thigh.  He’s bitey and finding tickle points in there, making you grunt between breaths as you come down.

He finds all the soft parts - the dip inside your hip, the give under your ribs, the puddle above your collarbone - and noses tonguey kisses in each as he crawls up your body. You fold into each one, half delighted, half pleading for a break, but he’s caging you and nudging you with his knees, happy and game.

You peek at him suspiciously, unable to not smile, then grin as he scrunches his nose and attacks your neck again.  All your limbs knock him, trying to get a hold or to push.  You yelp and laugh and he growls back.

Twisting away, you stretch and reach up to get a condom from your bedside drawer, then pull your top over your head.  As you’re turned, working your bra away, his fingers slide up and over your shoulder, a bit of contact before he bites at the meat and slides his hold down to your waist while you’re on your side.

He thumbs there a bit and you figure he’s looking at what he wrote when he says “I think we really captured the essence of things with these.”

“What does it say?” you ask.

“Screw you,” he says into your skin, kisses shallow from the smile.  “You’re covered in instructions.  Finally.  You really could do with manual.”

“Pff, as if you’d read the instructions.”  You lengthen yourself and curl your toes around his feet when he scootches close.

He watches his hand slide over your ass and back again. “Yeah, that’s what you do,” he jokes.  “You try to figure it out by yourself and then, when you break it, you read the instructions.”

You look over your shoulder, rolling onto your back to see him and making him move aside.  “You didn’t break me.”

“How close were you to leaving the bunker?” he asks, only letting the mood drop a semitone.

You swallow, chew a lip. “Days.  A few weeks tops.”

“Yeah,” he drags a finger up your arm.  “That woulda been my fault.  But I’ve started to make amends,” he waves his ‘Sorry’ hand and shrugs confidently.  “I can probably fix this.”

You slide your hand up the back of his head and pull him down for a kiss, open-eyed and sparkling.  “Take your clothes off,” you tell him.  “Let’s see if you’ve got the right screw.”

For the first time ever, Dean eagerly does what you tell him without a word of protest, and you wonder if the way it turns you on will be a problem in the future.  

He flops around on the bed, pushing off jeans and yanking off tops, grinning in between.  When he’s bare and beside you, he takes hold of your waist to pull you close with a throwaway _Come’ere_.  

The kiss is hot and your limbs snake into each other, smooth and singeing as they slide your bodies together side by side.  Both of you kiss like you’re stealing, cheekily tasting and moving too quickly.  Between the lines you’re having fun, stirring each other crazy, giving each other a playful margin separating the anger of the past and the way you might be.

Dean pushes you onto your back, sly and hungry, and you let him get at your neck and roll you about.  He starts moving against you while he kisses out of sight, knocking your legs with his thighs and hips between them, and bumping you up the bed.  It makes you sigh and arch again at the contact, and when he starts really trying to get you up to the pillows, jostling you with the odd hold on your ribs, levering a forearm under your armpit, you’re almost giggling with him being over you and big like this, but you’re impatient, your pussy is impatient, and he was in charge last time.

You push him back and he gives easily, and as you move over to straddle him his eager gaze runs up and down your body like he’s tracking to catch a superball.  You lace your fingers with his and press your palms together, leaning down to kiss a proper, full, wanting kiss and he hums, tugging a hand away so he can cup and hold your head and prove he means it too.  You smile into the kiss, and he smiles back.

“Did you want anything in particular?” you check.

“What did you have in mind?” he asks, and you sit up, high on his thighs, and hold up the condom with a smile.  

He grins back, “Finally we agree on something.”

“You know,” you say, opening the foil, “it’s probably going to be a while before I stop second guessing that.  I just always expect you to argue.  You’ve trained me so well.”  

Dean breathes deep, having waited patiently for you to slide the condom on, then catches a thumb in each of your palms, playing with your hands a bit.  “I can train you?” he says, tickled with the idea.

He threads the fingers and locks the knuckles laced, pulls them above his head high enough that you have to lean on him because you’re stretched so long.  “Wonder what else I could train you to do?”

You tilt your hips and rub the head of his cock against your swollen pussy, the folds open and heavy from what he’s already done to you.  He sucks a sharp breath and when you angle and scoop, he flexes so that his cock bobs, and you can catch it in the dint before nudging it inside a little.

“You know, I think if you’re patient enough,” you say smoothly, “and good enough-”

You push yourself down, feeling him slide up into your body, long and hot, and drag his hands back down so that you’re pressing them into the comforter beside his head. “-just about anything.”

He hums low and fills his chest nice and slow.  “God you feel good,” he says and slowly resettles his body beneath you.

“Yeah, you too,” you sigh and start to roll your hips a little.  You see his gaze drop to your lips, and he seems to hope for something.  You lean onto him for a kiss, something much more equal when both your hands are busy and you’re on top.  You can’t decide if you want to let him go so you can feel his skin and bulk, but then he starts to move his arms.

You fight it, pretending that there is no wrestle going on while you kiss, but he manages to get both your hands on the back of your hips, the knuckles knocking together, and he pushes up into you.  It’s good and your lips break away when you crack a moan.  He keeps at it, rocking you so your brow rolls on his while he tries to capture more kisses from you.

You sit up, stretching yourself tight and tall for the feel of it, and his arms curve around you to reach.  “Oh baby that’s a good look,” he murmurs, sitting up to get his mouth on your breast, nuzzling under the soft curve, around your ribs a bit, and looking around the unique horizons of your form as you work over him, all those gorgeous curves, all so warm, making him feel ravenous.

It’s good, but in this position, he’s not that stable and not that deep.  You manage to pull his hands out from behind you and push him to lay down again so you can really feel the fuck through your pussy, feel the flesh parted and your core pushed.  A little tilt and he’s dragging over your g-spot.  You snatch your hold, squeezing all his fingers between all of yours, asking him to give you something to lean on while you move.

Now that you’re not kissing, the words fall easily and mindlessly, things like _Dean, Fuck, Yeah, uh-god_ , humming out of you between the beats.  He’s replying _Yeah, I know, I gotcha, Jesus, Y/N,_ and you’re both, with just a fraction of your brains, amazed that you get to hear the other say this.

When he releases his hold, opening it up and shaking his hand free of your grip, he leads your fingers to your folds, silently asking you to please yourself there, and cups your breast to drag the pad of his thumb over the tip.  That’s when he really hears you, you both do, because you gasp high and cry “Uhfuck _Dean!”_ and when he sees you aren’t going slow down there, he lets your breast go and grabs your hip, holding you a little high so he can fuck up into you and meet you when you come.

Your jaw drops, lips heavy and shining and your eyebrows tilt from the surprise of how his thickness and aim suddenly slam pleasure into you without relief.  You rub your fingers back and forth, rough and hard, moving your clit over the bone.  You chance a look at Dean, expecting to see his eyes closed and concentrating on what he can feel, but he’s looking at you, watching how you ride him, fucking you, drinking in the sight of you blushing and shiny, hair undone and softness trembling, all of you on the edge of begging.

He doesn’t look away, and neither do you. The fingers on your hip bite down into the fat and he says “Go on,” with the slightest hint of chin, then bites his lip as he fucks you in bold. You cry out, because it’s somehow just the right kind of different.  On the next beat you’ve narrowed down on that spot you love, and by the third you feel the flash of perfection flush through you, out from under your fingers, down your core and over his cock, the skin of your thighs and ass seemingly washed unconscious for moments, and you gasp deeply, throwing your head up in surprise before leaning a hand on his stomach to brace yourself.  

With the fingers still laced, he pulls you down, throwing the hold above his head and catching you as you fall, guiding your lips to his and mumbling “So fucking gorgeous”. He pulls his grip from yours and slaps his palm low on your hip, on the rise of your ass, grabbing the flesh so he can help hold you high enough for him to keep fucking you. He kisses you all salty and sweet for a few beats before clenching his jaw and groaning freely when he lets himself go, locking your mouths together again, his moans flowing over your cheeks.

You’re exhausted, both of you, and you lay there for a while until your lungs can calm down.  After a minute, maybe two, he slides his arms around your waist and back and you clamp your body onto his, squeezing in thanks.  The kisses start up again but they’re so slack it’s like they’re in slow motion and reverse, and soon he’s tucked your head under his chin for some rest.

Two light smacks on your hip is his cue for the next bit.  Without a word, you clean yourselves up, this part coming easily and without awkwardness, and when he’s all done his hands are pulling on your arms, your wrists, waist, guiding you back to him as he lays on the sheets, collecting you into his hold.  

“Do you think we’re going to get along now?” he asks.

You snuggle in and kiss his neck, under his jaw, before laying long and looking at him.  “I think we can figure out how to not kill each other.”

He smiles to himself, enjoying being able to watch you slow blink and be close and rosy, and not trying to fight him.  “I feel like I’ve tamed a lion,” he says “Like I might be risking my life this very second.”

You roll your eyes and mock lazily.  “Watch!  As I put my cock in this lion’s mouth!”

He grins in surprise at your joke, eyes lighting up at the thought, and you giggle back for him getting so excited.  You drag your hand down his head until your palm is over his jaw and sigh deep and happy.  “I’ve never wanted to fight with anyone the way I want to fight with you,” you tell him.

He smirks and grins.  “I know just what you mean sweetheart.”


End file.
